


Through the Eyes of the World

by Houdini_the_Second



Category: Bayonetta (Video Games)
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Bisexual Female Character, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Humor, LGBTQ Themes, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houdini_the_Second/pseuds/Houdini_the_Second
Summary: Theoretical physics suggest that each alternative action that can be taken spawns into existence a new universe. The multiverse is proposed to be composed of these many diverging timelines, each created with every infinitesimal decision made by every being in the world.It's theoretical for a reason. But not totally incorrect.A split created during the events of Bayonetta 1 creates two seperate timelines; two Bayonettas, two Jeannes, endless trouble.As the world around Bayonetta slowly begins to collapse from the loss of the Eyes of the World, she and her companions are blindsided by the arrival of a new set of faces...or are they?Two of the same become one with a difference as Bayonetta sets out with another version of herself to correct a grievous series of events and yet again bring peace and order to her world...and then some.
Relationships: Bayonetta/Jeanne (Bayonetta), Cereza/Jeanne (Bayonetta)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Through the Eyes of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Hello BayoJeanne fandom! You may have read my fic, Reconciliation, about one or two years ago (I don't remember when it was that I posted it). Originally, Reconciliation was the drunk brainchild of my sleep deprived, over worked, moderately frustrated self; it was born from a silly, simple drabble, and the first chapter is, indeed, very short, and very riddled with syntax that's just...ok. 
> 
> I had no outline, and only the barest of inclinations when I wrote it, and it therefore, did not make it past three chapters. Returning to that story is difficult for me because it was written during a time where I had lost a lot of my lust to write. I struggled with syntax and diction, and often found myself rewriting chapters. I disliked the characterization of our leading ladies as well, but struggled to find the time or passion to correct it.
> 
> I'm in a much better standing now. 
> 
> Through the Eyes of the World will be an approximately 20 Chapter long fanfiction that sets out to imitate what fans believe Bayonetta 3 may be about...with the addition of some much wanted romance between our two (or in this case, four) leading women. 
> 
> It will be updated on a monthly basis, with the goal being one to three chapters per month, and perhaps just over a year of writing. Unlike Reconciliation, I do have a proper outline formulated for this story, so the chances of me abandoning it are much smaller. I hope you all will enjoy it!
> 
> If you'd like to keep up with this, and some of my other projects, you can follow me on tumblr at https://bayonettas-left-eye.tumblr.com/. Happy reading!

Theoretical physics suggests that each alternative action that can be taken spawns into existence a new universe. The multiverse is proposed to be composed of these many diverging timelines, each created with every infinitesimal decision made by every being in the world.

It’s theoretical for a reason. But not totally incorrect.

### Verse 1.1

A young, raven haired women traipsed lazily on the fractured rim of a crumbling clocktower. Little bits of pebble spilled off the building’s cracked edges where her feet landed. Many years ago, it had been sliced into two unequal halves by a scornful angel. Once a symbol of power and unity, its desecration had seemed to signal the end of an entire people.

This woman had come from those people. And her mother. And her mother’s mother, if she was remembering correctly, which she wasn’t entirely sure she was. Centuries ago, it had been an honor to be one of their kind...to be an Umbra Witch. It had been an aspiration coveted by women far and wide, from all parts of the Earth. To become an Umbra Witch significantly improved one’s lot in life.

Just, the one.

Because, you see, being a Witch guaranteed no further benefits to a person’s family, except, perhaps, the protection offered by those who chose to fight in defense of their clan. Sons were never accepted into the Witch’s ranks, and those boy children who seemed promising were sent off to the Lumen Sages for judgement; daughters were carefully chosen, meaning not all girl children were guaranteed a spot among the female elite.

The process post picking was even worse. Girls were put through rigorous trials to determine their aptitude and resilience. Little ones often suffered grievous injuries, and on occasion, death. Training, which was, at times, grueling, lasted from the age of four until womanhood, at around twenty.

One final test of strength and will would determine if a girl were to truly become a Witch. A young lady could waste away her whole youth working towards an unforthcoming witch-dom.

All things considered, it was surprising that this particular witch, who so carelessly crept along the clocktower’s trembling borders, had even become the accomplished and historical witch she was today. Surprising, because the circumstances of her birth had stacked many odds against her success within the fragile and rigid cultural parameters of her clan.

The fruit of a cursed tryst, the product of a love prohibited by the laws of the clans, Cereza had been born from the union of a Lumen Sage and an Umbran Witch, a coupling forbidden by both their respective societies. A coupling forbidden based on promontory texts that suggested one such union would produce an Armageddon to end the clans.

Of course, Cereza was anything but the Armageddon, if one were to read the texts carefully. This event had been brought on by the clans’ own hubris; so confident were they in their decision to abuse and discard the mental and emotional capacities of the strongest witch to have ever lived, and the Right Eye of the world, that they never stopped to think that things like desperation and vengeance might one day lead to their untimely end.

And Cereza, who was no Armageddon, would become the one witch to supersede even her infallible mother in power; half-breed of the clans, and possessor of the Left Eye, deemed more worthy by the world than any other witch born in her time, she would rise through the ranks of her clan until it’s very destruction.

Cereza thought of these events and frowned. Her slim arms jutted out from her body as she balanced idly on the toes of her left foot; a larger rock of debris split from a broken brick and she wondered if testing the integrity of the clocktower’s remains was the wisest of ideas. She sighed heavily and sunk down into a dip in the crack; uneven pebbles prickled her rear uncomfortably, but she ignored this inconvenience in favor of staring out over the expansive valley below. Snowy trees doubled over as gusts of wind ripped through the forest.

The frigid air crawled across the thin layer of hair wrapped around her body. She didn’t shiver; her magically enhanced suit, composed of her own inky black hair, protected her from most elemental discomforts.

Far past the valley, a shimmer of fireworks rained down from the dark sky, careening in fading light trails towards Vigrid’s tall, beige and gray skyscrapers. More fireworks exploded past the first onslaught. The chime of excited human voices just barely reached her sensitive ears; she closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. Her powers, her inheritance, the Left Eye, had endowed her with senses far superior to the average witch. She listened harder, discerning shouted, cheery conversations, and struggling to hear the whispers that were a tad too quiet to distinguish from the chorus of voices.

A louder, closer sound interrupted her. The clamor of heels on brick. A soft sigh. The ruffle of short hair being combed through by a gloved hand.

“Are you _ever_ going to update that hairstyle, Cereza?”

A gentle finger flicked the back of her head and a sense of warmth seeped down Cereza’s body to the tips of her toes. The finger hooked around a loose strand of her hair and tugged; the strand fluttered gently down to her face and she blew it out of the way. She scowled.

“Really now, Jeanne?” she griped. “I work hard to fix my hair every morning.”

Jeanne snorted.

“You’re not fond of it?” Cereza asked, twirling a finger around the flyaway.

“I wouldn’t say it’s quite that,” Jeanne said softly, lowering herself to sit alongside Cereza. “More like, it’s a bit out of date now, wouldn’t you say? Beehives in the 21st century?”

“Hmph. It’ll come back in style. Just you wait.”

“If you say so,” Jeanne murmured.

Jeanne. The only other surviving witch in the world.

Jeanne had sacrificed everything for Cereza. In their youth, about 600 years ago now, she had defied the very laws of their clan to give Cereza a fighting chance among her people. They had dueled for the Umbran throne, and Jeanne had lost, but Cereza had often wondered if her friend, now lover, had not tried hard enough to _win_. If she had simply forgone that metaphorical crown as one poignant ‘fuck you,’ to the laws of a society that Jeanne had, otherwise, adored. Or, perhaps, as a gift to her most beloved. Cereza had never thought to ask. Some things, she believed, were just best forgotten. The day of their duel had been quickly followed by the downfall of their people. Those memories did not bring with them a sense of jubilance.

Jeanne had, of course, done so much more than even just that. She had faced and defeated Balder, Cereza’s exiled father, alongside Cereza on the day of the foretold Armageddon. Together, at just twenty years old, that had put a stop to her father’s misguided war on witches.

That had been the beginning of forever together for them. Best friends turned immortal lovers. The end result had been romantic in its own special way.

She turned now to look at Jeanne. Bright, livid eyes stared back at her from under long, fluttering lashes. Put together perfectly, as always, Jeanne’s red lips were pulled down in a small, intrigued frown. She was running a single hand repeatedly through ivory hair so short it nearly touched her scalp. A sign something was bothering her, Cereza thought.

“What’s wrong,” Cereza whispered, catching Jeanne’s hand by the wrist mid-comb. She slackened her grip so Jeanne could free her hand, but rather than dropping it to her side, she grasped Cereza’s, intertwining their fingers in a comfortable hand hold.

The fingers of Jeanne’s other hand brushed lightly over her silver Umbra Watch.

“Our friends down south seem uneasy,” she said, eyes unfocused. “That is...unusual.”

“A bad sign?” Cereza murmured, brows knitting together in consternation.

“I think so,” Jeanne breathed, lifting her eyes to gaze upon the swatch of glittering stars lighting up the night sky. Cereza watched her, enamored. Lifting their clasped hands, she brushed the back of her own against Jeanne’s pale cheek; a light blush flushed her face and she rested her head on Cereza’s shoulder pressing herself close to the other woman; her nearly scalp-short hair tickled Cereza’s neck.

“We’ll face whatever comes together,” Cereza hummed.

“Of course,” Jeanne sighed.

Cereza turned to face Jeanne, intending to kiss the top her head; her lips instead collided with the soft, red hills of her partner’s. Jeanne’s mouth tasted of cherries and wine. Her breath was sweet, a side effect of being Umbran, and Cereza inhaled the scent of it greedily.

Jeanne broke the kiss first. She gave Cereza a pleased, but perplexed, look and Cereza quirked one long, elegant eyebrow.

“What?”

“Why are we up here,” Jeanne said, patting the unpleasant, craggy edges of the fractured clocktower, “when we could be down there, fucking?”

Cereza paused for a beat to take in Jeanne’s words. Then her booming laugh echoed out across the trees below.

### Verse 1.2

They had made their way back to Vigrid. The city was rampant with festivities. Children ran and tumbled untamed in the streets, weaving and skidding around the tangled legs of inebriated adults, whose faces were cherry red with the touch of heavy alcohol.

Jeanne, hand grasped firmly around Cereza’s wrist, towed her through the festivities, barreling past anyone who would get in their way, with the exception of children. They roamed through narrow, bricked roads until Jeanne’s brows shot up, and she pulled Cereza towards a block that seemed all too familiar. They stopped in front of a paled, reddish brick house; Cereza, neck craned backwards, let out a soft gasp.

“I haven’t been back here in years, Jeanne,” Cereza said, apprehensively eyeing the polished wooden door of the quaint building in front of her. It’s previously vibrant exterior had paled with the passage of time. Hairline fractures ran in spiderweb patterns across some of the bricks, stuffed with mortar in an attempt to fix, rather than restore, a structural problem that would eventually need to be addressed. The building was squished neatly between two others that greatly resembled it. A crest on that same polished door read out in bright, golden lettering: “Rosa & Balder.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jeanne said slowly, “But I took the liberty of hiring cleaners to attend to it every month.”

“Of course not,” Cereza murmured, grazing the tips of her fingers against the elevated text of the plaque.

Her mother’s house. She had lived here for most of her childhood. Balder had claimed ownership of the estate after Rosa’s imprisonment. Every bit of it had been lovingly attended to by him. The little planters hanging off the four sash windows, brimming with violently red roses and stark white ones (Jeanne had had them repotted with red, white, and blue roses). The door, which he had repainted every five years to maintain a bright, welcoming sheen (Jeanne had had it varnished to a glossy dark brown). The crest, which had been his own addition after Rosa’s incarceration (it sparkled, well waxxed, no doubt by the cleaners on Jeanne’s request).

Little bits of character that had suggested two people who deeply loved one another had once secretly conceived the Armageddon within this quaint, little brick house’s four solid walls.

The clink of keys jangled from somewhere near Cereza. Jeanne had plucked her personal keychain from a pocket on her red suit. Four keys hung loosely from a silver ring, alongside a key fob in the shape of a milky white cat. Cereza had not noticed the addition of the fourth gold key.

It was this key that the ivory haired woman plugged into the lock, and this key which unlocked a whole host of Cereza’s unbidden memories. Her father, baking the best tasting, honeyed bread for her; combing a spindly brush through her long, raven hair; holding her at a night so that she could fall asleep better when the sobbing would not stop. Balder. Balder who had betrayed Cereza, betrayed Rosa, betrayed the world, Balder, whose life the two women standing here today had ended, 600-something odd years ago.

Jeanne pushed the door open.

### Verse 1.3

Cereza was fiddling with a simple wooden figurine. It was reminiscent of her childhood appearance. Tiny glasses had been painted around the two dots that served as eyes, and a light pink dress had been carefully drawn in bright paint around the uncomplicated body. Two thick ropes of hair had been blotched along each side of its head in an inky black color. All done by her father. It had faded some with time, but remained as characteristic as Cereza had remembered it. Unusual, for something that old.

Jeanne watched her through catlike eyes, sipping languidly on an effervescent glass of red wine. She was curled up, naked, under a thick throw they had managed to wrangle out of a stuffy closet. The throw itself was brand new. Jeanne had had the house stocked before their arrival.

The fireplace behind her burned intensely, framing the woman in a halo of orange light, and throwing the rest of the living room into a sharp relief. It was as quaint on the inside as it was on the outside. Opposite the fireplace, a small, weathered loveseat blocked their view to the foyer. In front of it was a woody, musty smelling glass and wood coffee table that had been carved straight from the stump of a felled tree. Made by order, and hand crafted, it was not a relic from the days of Cereza’s parents, but rather a brand-new addition to the house. A housewarming gift, Jeanne had said _. “One of a kind, like you, Cereza.”_

Sat on top the table was a curling, dogeared paper map of Vigrid. Its edges had browned with age, and a few lines of text had faded to a patchy blur, but it was, otherwise, in fairly good condition. Cereza pressed the figurine onto it, in the location she assumed her mother’s house would be.

“You know,” she murmured, and Jeanne’s head perked up, “I had this whole story made up as a child.”

“I had dreamt up that mummy had taken me on some fantastical adventure through Vigrid,” she laughed. “I used to recite it to Balder, every now and then, with this map, and this little toy. I’m sure he worried about my sanity.”

“It could not have been _that_ deranged,” Jeanne drawled.

Abandoning the map and toy, Cereza slipped under the blanket with her. Their naked bodies melted into one another, limbs entangling in a confused mess. She pushed her face into the crook of Jeanne’s neck, breathing in her scent as she was apt to do. Jeanne planted a soft kiss on the top of her head, hair flat now without her trademark beehive hairstyle.

“It was that deranged,” she murmured, chuckling against Jeanne’s clavicle. “I was dreaming of airplanes, cars, motorbikes. All before they’d ever been invented.”

“That’s _fascinating_ ,” Jeanne said, a notable touch of surprise coloring her voice. “You were getting visions of the future,” she mused, absentmindedly tracing a finger along Cereza’s bare spine.

“The Left Eye is a powerful thing,” Cereza hummed.

“Well then, perhaps Balder may have experienced the very same things,” Jeanne suggested. “He was, after all, the Right Eye.”

“Perhaps.”

They lay in silence for a while, breathing each other in, doing nothing but listening to the blissful peace of quiet.

“Cereza?” Jeanne muttered, rousing her out of her small reverie.

“Hm?”

“We’ve been together for a long a while, haven’t we?”

“Let me think,” Cereza teased. “Six hundred years...seems exhaustively long to me!” she said brightly and Jeanne rolled her eyes. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, Cereza lost herself in deep pools of blue-gray.

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen someone more beautiful,” she whispered.

Jeanne looked away, blushing.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, clearing her throat. “And anyway, you’ve never properly seen yourself, have you?”

Cereza laughed and settled her chin onto the other woman’s chest.

“What’s bothering you,” she hummed, brushing the back of her hand against Jeanne’s rosy cheek.

“It’s not a bother...,” Jeanne said slowly, “so much as it is a want.”

“A want?”

“Six hundred is an exhaustively long time, isn’t it?” she murmured, becoming progressively quieter, progressively _shier_. How extremely unusual, Cereza thought. Shy and Jeanne were not often things that went together.

“It,” she continued, at almost a whisper now, “is a very long time to be together, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cereza affirmed, not understanding the direction of their conversation.

Jeanne looked at her from under her eyelashes; long, curling, as starkly ivory as the strands on her head.

“Do you love me?” she whispered.

“Of course!” Cereza murmured, brows knitting together in consternation. “You know that.”

“Tell me.”

“I love you, Jeanne,” she said without missing a beat. “I could live without everything in this world, but not without you.”

“Then,” she looked hard at Cereza now, eyes searching for what Cereza could not yet see, “when we get back to New York, would you like to marry me?”

“I...Oh,” Cereza spluttered, a wave of heat surging across her face. Butterflies fluttered around happily in her stomach and she pressed herself deeper into Jeanne’s embrace. Chuckling through the blush, she leaned in to kiss Jeanne deeply.

“I thought,” she laughed, “you were about to tell me you didn’t love me.”

“Cereza...”

“I will marry you,” she said softly, kissing Jeanna again.

“And, we’ll go ring shopping together?”

“Of course we will,” Cereza acquiesced, reveling in the broad grin that splayed across Jeanne’s red lips.

“I love you, Cereza.”

“I love you, Jeanne,” she replied, resting her ear over Jeanne’s heart.

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Cereza’s eyes flew open adjusting quickly to the inky darkness surrounding her. An acerbic, smokey scent filled her nostrils; the fireplace had gone out, recently, by the smell of it. Beneath her, Jeanne awoke, becoming unnaturally still.

A loud banging ( _Thump. Thump. Thump._ ) sounded from the foyer, as though someone were ramming their fists angrily on the front door. An eerie purple glow filtered in from the windows. The street outside seemed uncommonly quiet.

Cereza and Jeanne glanced at each other, just briefly enough to share a brisk nod, before creeping to their feet. Tendrils of white and black hair twined around their limbs, coalescing to form Umbran battle suits. Slowly, they made their way to the front door, approaching from opposing angles.

The moment Cereza’s fingers grazed the lock, the thumping silenced. The silence was followed by a crash on the second floor. Glass shattering. From the first floor windows, Cereza just barely registered the roses careening down to the earth from the planters above.

The stairway erupted in an explosion of purple light. A preternatural wind ravaged through the living room, blowing the paper map, figurine, throw, glasses, and bottles in all various directions. Without understanding why, Cereza dove for the map and her tiny, little wooden self, clutching them tightly in her hands.

Before Cereza could get to her feet again, Jeanne gasped, snarled “no,” and yelped as she collided with a wall near the fireplace. And before Cereza could register what had happened, a thick, brown forearm reached down to tug her up by the throat; its encircling hand crushed the breath out of her windpipes.

The glowing thing hissed at her triumphantly. A stark white smile dawned across its somewhat Egyptian features. A person-ish sort of thing, Cereza registered, with smooth brown skin, thick lips, and a cruel, ivory smile. It emanated a shocking amount of power. Cereza had never felt anything like it before.

“Bayonetta,” the Thing howled, shaking her rigorously. “Oh, Bayonetta, how I have longed to end you.”

Bayonetta. Bayonetta? Bayonetta, Bayonetta, Bayonetta. Why did that sound so familiar?

“What...the fuck...,” she choked out. The creature frowned at her, shrugging it’s broad, but delicate shoulders.

“Of course, that’s not the name you go by in this world, is it? _Cereza_. Hmph.”

“Let...go,” she kicked up a foot, allowing a spray of bullets to fire wildly from one of her guns. The creature sneered disdainfully, holding her higher up.

“You will never shame me again,” it scowled. “I will never bow to you again. Now,” he purred, abruptly changing tone. “If I may. The Left Eye, _please_.”

Cereza gasped as icy tendrils of energy tore into her left eye. The feeling traveled through the entire left portion of her body like an internal, writhing parasite; every part of it was directed towards the glowing hand holding on to her. This thing was draining her, sucking her dry of a power that she had always believed to be so blood-deep it was irremovable.

“I may have to reform the Right one,” the creature mused. “Such a pity it is, to waste power on humankind. I shall never make that mistake aga-“

Before it could finish extracting the Eye, a crack like lightning echoed throughout the room. The Thing gasped and stumbled and Jeanne’s foot connected heartily with its head. Cereza fell to the ground in a shambled heap, gasping for breath. Warmth seeped into her as the left eye seemed to once again settle in its proper place in her cranium. Before she could find her bearings, Jeanne had hooked her hands underneath her armpits, dragging her to her feet.

They burst out the front door on four paws, dashing like mad for the street end. Cereza did not register the humans, which seem to be melting around her. Dissolving, slowly, into translucent half-frames of themselves, losing their identity as the Thing barreled down the street after them, chasing the two large and unusually colored cats.

The end of the street was fast approaching.

And the street did, very much, end.

The world too, by the looks of it.

Vigrid floated in broken fragments through a thick, purple substance as dark and untouchable as the space surrounding the planets. Their paws skidded to a stop at what could have been a cliff edge, so steep was the drop. Nothingness dipped down below them. Flecks of brick crumbled down into this dark emptiness and Cereza could not see where it was they fell. Cereza knew better than to jump; the void below her would swallow her and she could not be sure she would return.

“Smart little witch,” the creature bellowed, and a crack of energy seared the spot near Jeanne’s russet paws. More of the street’s paved brick fell away into the void, leaving a gaping hole between themselves and the Thing.

“Smart little bitch,” it rhymed, and Cereza, human now, grabbed Jeanne by the scruff and tugged her out of the way as another bolt of purplish energy impaled the spot where Jeanne had stood.

 _The Eye, my sweet child._ A smooth, familiar baritone voice interrupted Cereza’s panicked thoughts. She nearly crumpled under the force of its intervention. Pain like the crack of lightning slithered up the back of her head from the base of her neck.

“Balder?” she shouted aimlessly.

She clung tightly to Jeanne’s furred body. The russet cat hissed. The Thing fast approached.

 _The Eye,_ the voice hissed urgently, losing some of its composition.

“Daddy?!” she cried.

Jeanne yowled in Cereza’s arms. A plea. It was nearly here. A third purple orb had formed in its outstretched palm.

At the same moment the creature screamed in triumph, Cereza shouted to the sky. Her left eye blazed red and a pulse of crimson energy formed a shield around herself and her companion. The energy coalesced at the top of the shield where it beamed skyward in that same iridescent, bloody hue.

“Bayonetta!” Cereza shouted to the heavens. “Take me to Bayonetta!”

### Verse 1.4

_Somewhere on another plane of existence._

The Gates of Hell, a quaint little demon-run bar, had been packed to the brim with couples celebrating Valentine’s Day all night. A plump, Italian man in an ill-fitted iridescent maroon suit squeezed between patrons with drinks and platters of food. He grumbled as hands reached blindly over his greased down hair, snatching up little toothpicks of appetizers, and undoing his carefully knotted bun. His tinted glasses twisted on his pointy nose and he struggled to push them back into place.

Huffing, he brushed past a young couple who seemed to be engaged in the act of determinedly sucking each other’s faces off. They sneered at him, and the young man waved a middle finger, but he ignored them as he trudged towards the bar-top at the back of the room. His eyes skimmed over the crowd, and as he stood on the tip of his toes, he cursed his short stature.

Finally, he seemed to find what he had been searching for. Worming his way past all manner of PDA, he sidled up to a group of three, whose heads were pressed closely together over an ancient, yellowed book. Two young women—one with short, raven black hair and dressed in a stylish, black romper, the other with flowing, ivory white locks in a form fitting red dress—were in animated discussion with a burly, and equally young, man whose crunchy hair tickled the bottom of his stubbled chin and fell in messy, tangled strands from his poorly kept ponytail.

“Weren’t you supposed to be helpin out here, kid?” the plump man accused, jabbing a stubby finger at the young man who had been clearly dressed in a waiter’s uniform.

“Give him a break, Enzo,” the raven-haired woman drawled, sipping on a pinkish, fruity looking drink. “Luka’s been playing waiter for Rodin all day. His feet are probably raw by now.”

Enzo rolled his eyes. “You know, you could help a guy out Bayonetta. You never get tired.”

“I could,” Bayonetta allowed, dipping a finger in her drink and swirling it around the mouth of her salt covered glass.

“But you won’t,” Enzo grumbled under his breath.

“Precisely,” she said brightly.

“Besides,” the white-haired woman interjected, “you might even lose some weight, Enzo.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Enzo grumbled, clambering onto a seat to Bayonetta’s left. Her peered past her arm, scrutinizing the mustardy looking book. The must of age curled up from it’s dry, brittle looking pages; Enzo could not understand any of the text. Enochian, he reasoned with a disbelieving shake of his head.

“All the time in the world to get drunk and youse three are sitting here _reading_. Unbelievable.”

Bayonetta tipped her glass meaningfully.

“And anyways, what’s that all about?” he said, flapping a hand at the aged book.

“History!” Luka answered brightly, and for the first time Enzo noticed the small notebook near the young man’s arm, cramped with Luka’s stiff handwriting.

“Jeanne’s translating them for me,” he continued, gesturing at the white-haired woman.

“For future generations of witches,” Bayonetta drawled, and Enzo realized she was drunk. Enzo also did not miss the hint of sarcasm in her words, nor the incredulous look Jeanne shot at her dark-haired companion. Their lips moved quickly, and Enzo knew he had missed something uttered too quickly and too quietly for him, or any average human, to hear. He exchanged meaningful glances with Luka, who shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, “They’ve been at it all day.”

Enzo cleared his throat and the two women’s faces automatically smoothed into masks of perfect, unbothered serenity. Behind his dim glasses, his eyes rolled again. He may have been human, but he and the kid weren’t stupid.

“Domestic disputes, am I right,” he growled under his breath and both women scowled.

“ _Private_ disputes,” Jeanne emphasized.

Luka cleared his throat and the four of them sat in a silence sullied by the ladies’ sour mood.

“Don’t these people have anything better to do,” Bayonetta complained. Enzo followed her line of sight to a couple pressed against the back wall of the bar; the man’s hand should have been surreptitiously placed under his female companion’s skirt, under a table maybe, but all manner of sensibility or decency seemed to have been lost to alcohol. Indecent, indeed, but an unusual thing for Bayonetta of all people to complain about.

“This is the better thing to be doing right now, Cereza,” Jeanne teased, though Enzo could see the distinct stiffness in her shoulders. He wondered what arguments had set the two, who were normally so inseparable, on edge this way.

“Hmph,” was Bayonetta’s response.

Enzo sidled off his chair. He would take his escape while he could. Luka could deal with these two he thought, just as a look of protest dawned on Luka’s face, and he opened his mouth, perhaps to ask where Enzo was going.

Before the words could leave his mouth, the bar _shuddered_. Glasses trembled violently, a few chairs toppled over, and bar-goers found themselves splayed on the floor. Rodin’s shiny dome poked out from bar’s backroom; little red dots behind his dark glasses sparkled wonderingly. At the same time, Jeanne’s hand flew to the silver watch inconspicuously snatched onto the clasp at her dresses dipping cleavage.

“What _is_ that sensation,” Bayonetta slurred, struggling to stand as she slipped off her bar stool.

“An earthquake,” Luka suggested, hand clamped firmly onto the bar table.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jeanne murmured, grasping Bayonetta’s arms tightly.

“Um...ow,” Bayonetta complained, weakly tugging at Jeanne’s vice grip.

“Cereza,” Jeanne said, eyes blazing. “What do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” the other witch responded, shaking her head.

“Think,” Jeanne urged.

“I can’t,” Bayonetta protested, and Luka reached over to pluck the colorful glass of alcohol from her unsteady hand.

“What do _you_ feel Jeanne,” he murmured, settling the glass by her elbow.

Jeanne shook her head, eyes still firmly glued to Bayonetta’s, lips moving rapidly as they exchanged another whispered conversation.

And then, Bayonetta gasped and the world ended.

Or, at least, that was what it felt like to Enzo as a massive, swirling, crimson portal split open at the very center of the bar.

“Fuck!” Was Rodin’s last uttered expletive before the portal exploded into a tornado of writhing energy. Screaming patrons were knocked to their feet or blasted against the walls of the bar. A few scrambled towards the exit, just managing to scuttle out the door, shouting for someone to call 911. Enzo ducked as a young woman flew past his head, caught squarely in Rodin’s waiting arms. He steadied her and she sunk to the ground, muttering to herself.

Enzo himself was huddled underneath the bar-top, pressed flush against its smooth oak surface. The gust of wind from the portal knocked his glasses right off his face, and he grasped blindly for them.

“Fuck,” someone else said; Luka. If Enzo could have seen, he would have been greeted with the peculiar sight of Luka latched tightly onto Jeanne, who stood unfazed against the raging wind of the portal. Next to her, though Bayonetta teetered and tottered, even she remained glued to the ground.

Witches.

Just as Enzo was beginning to think this fresh hell would never cease to exist, a glaring flash of light and an odd suctioning sound seemed to signal the beginning of a much desired end. Enzo’s fingers latched onto his discarded glasses at just the moment that, with one last heave, the portal collapsed in on itself and spit out of its dying remains a heap of black and red. Air seemed to reverse in direction, and within a few seconds, the portal was no more.

Rodin leapt into action, shouting about an explosion to electrical wiring. Completely unbelievable, but it needed to be, and Enzo knew without being asked that he too should begin to circulate this lie. Whatever the problem, they would deal with it after everyone had been fed the necessary bullshit.

The black and red pile at the center of the bar roused; an uncomfortable, pained groan sounded from one of the two things lying on the floor. Enzo wondered what kind of trouble it would spell if the pile started shooting lasers at the bar’s many bystanders; the electrical wiring bullshit would never fly. The gig would be up. They’d have to move house, change name. Enzo was already dreading what his wife would say.

But...Rodin didn’t seem bothered. And if Rodin wasn’t bothered, Enzo figured he too, shouldn’t be. It took half-an-hour to evacuate the bar, and more time to convince the fire department that there was no need to worry, that Rodin had it under control. Enzo missed when Bayonetta got to her knees to flip their portal openers over, missed her hushed gasp when the woman in her arms turned out to be none other than herself, missed as that women sprung to her feet, and leveled Parsley straight at Bayonetta’s elegant nose demanding to know what games they were playing at.

It was only when Enzo crossed back over the bar’s threshold, Rodin fast on his heels, that he found himself face to face with this most peculiar scene.

“Move and I’ll shoot,” the other Bayonetta, the _old_ Bayonetta, Enzo thought, noting the outdated beehive, snarled and jabbed her crimson gun in Bayonetta’s direction.

“What’s with that old getup,” new Bayonetta snorted, clambering to her feet with some assistance from Jeanne. Next to old Bayonetta’s feet, the red pile of fur twitched, and Enzo recognized what he thought was a large cat of some sort. Its bright, verdant eyes blinked open, and it launched to its feet, assuming the shape...of Jeanne.

 _Old_ Jeanne, Enzo recognized. Her short hair unusually frazzled, she too leveled her gun at the newer versions of themselves, and Enzo sat his ass squarely on one of the few standing bar stools. His head was beginning to spin. Behind new Jeanne, Luka’s mouth was popped open in a little, disbelieving ‘o’.

Old Jeanne’s eyes flashed to them as Enzo’s ass slapped the stool, and he froze. Her eyebrows knitted together.

“Rodin?”

“Bayonetta,” Rodin ignored this old Jeanne, addressing new Bayonetta. “Ask them something. Something only you would know. Something from your childhood.”

“Bayonetta...,” the old Bayonetta murmured; her eyes bulged as some sort of realization dawned on her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Rodin silenced her with a raise of one of his broad palms.

“Ask her something, Cereza,” the new Jeanne urged, and another shock of revelations seemed to rock their two, older versions.

Bayonetta shook her head. Jutting her chin at the watch clasped on old Bayonetta’s chest, she asked, “When did you get that watch?”

The old Bayonetta frowned; her fingers flew to rest lightly on the watch’s embossed, gold surface.

“Mummy gave it me,” she muttered. “December 19th, 1415. The day I turned four.”

The metaphorical frost in the air seemed to thaw out some with this answer. The two Bayonetta’s frowned at each other in exactly the same way.

“Rodin, what’s going on?” Both Jeanne’s asked at the same time, at the very same moment. “Hmm,” they said, again at the same time, livid eyes leveling stubbornly with one another.

“Seriously, what the fuck,” Luka whispered, though he reached out bracingly to help new Jeanne steady a still drunk Bayonetta.

“I think I know,” Rodin said with a curt nod, “But y’all better sit down, because it’s gonna be a ride.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone spots any errors, please let me know. Google corrected this document for me automatically from my phone...and did so incorrectly??? I've fixed as many errors and as I and Microsoft Word could find, but I'm not sure if that's everything. Much thanks in advance.


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